Monday, May 27, 2013

Yay! Free Smut!

I don't have a ton of time to blog right now. Or a ton of stuff to say that is not man/hospital/illness related. So, I'm posting some free smut today by one of my favorite people in the whole wild world--dirty or otherwise ;) Population 32 originally appeared in the Dirtyville Anthology edited by moi. The antho is gone now but a lot of the authors have agreed to let me post their stories here as free reads. Look for more in the future.

If you happen to be a former 'Villes author and would like your story to appear here, please contact me if you haven't already done so.

Happy Memorial Day, folks. Kiss a veteran and tell them thank you.

XOXO
Sommer

Population 32
Alison Tyler

There was a day, a few years back, when we all watched Sarah Miller up on a stepstool by the ugly green sign on the border of town. She was adjusting the population numbers using a strip of duct tape and a pair of sewing sheers, turning 32 to 31 with an X and a line.
That’s how easy it is to erase a lover.
We all knew that her long-time girlfriend, Mona, had left in the night, stealing a battered old suitcase and leaving behind an empty bottle of scotch. “Nobody stays for long,” Sarah complained, stepping into the bar. “After awhile, they always leave.”
What do we have to offer in our tiny hamlet? Beautiful views. A one-pump gas station—faded ‘mechanic wanted’ sign in the window—and a bar with a jukebox that only plays Zeppelin. My bar.
The bar’s where I met James. He was passing through—that’s what they do, says Sarah—they pass through. I was behind the counter, as always, leaning on my elbows and watching the turkey vultures hover out the window. New dead meat in the road.
James walked in right when the first vulture plunged, a flutter of black wings. Every head in the place turned to look as James sat at the bar. Vultures. New blood is as exciting inside as it is out.
“What can I get you?” I asked, feeling everyone watching us.
James scanned the bottles behind me. Then he scanned me. My cheeks flushed. I’d been thinking of the birds, and I hadn’t looked him full on yet. Dark hair brushed back, cool blue eyes, working man’s hands. I like hands like that, hands that can grip onto a wrench as easy as a bottle.
“Maker’s Mark,” he said, and I poured him a healthy shot.
“What do you all do in town for fun?” he asked next. I tried to smile, but I could feel the tightness in my throat. Not a lot to do at the end of the road. You can drive to hear music, 45 minutes North. Or you can go out dancing, an hour and a half South. But unless you like quiet—and by quiet, I mean quiet—our town doesn’t offer a lot.
“Depends on how you define ‘fun,’” I managed to say.
He looked me up and down again. My pussy tightened. I hadn’t had that kind of fun in awhile. Not since Mona left town.
He was on me before closing, in me as soon as the last rancher had left the bar. We did it in the hallway, his hands all over my body, his mouth on my throat. I hadn’t been with a man for months, hadn’t had sex like this since I first discovered what fucking really meant. Freedom.

* * * *

The fact that he was at the bar the next night made my heart pound. The fact that he came home with me—up the stairs to the lonely apartment over the bar—brought forth a rush of hope as powerful as the three climaxes he gave me: first me astride him, then his mouth on my cunt, and then his cock in my ass.
“People don’t stay here,” I said into my pillow afterwards. I didn’t want him to see the tears. “They move on through.”
“What do I have to do to prove I’m staying?”
I thought about it. “I’ll tell you when I know.”

* * * *

The next morning, I shared the memory of Sarah, on her stepstool with her tape and scissors. That night, he got out the duct tape, but he didn’t head for the sign. I hadn’t been bound before. James kept me right where he wanted me, and then he told me all the ways we were going to do it: “I knew when I walked into the bar that you were waiting for me,” he said. That would have sounded stuck-up if he hadn’t added the words, “Like I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Waiting how?”
“I’m not a patient man,” he admitted. “I’ve been waiting, but not like those fucking birds in the trees, out there on a branch. I’ve had my eyes open. That’s what I mean.”
He sat at my side. He stroked my hair. He let his fingers wander down my body. “I am never going to get tired of fucking you,” he said, and then he bent and began to lick my clit, tough fingers spreading open my soft lips. “I’m never going to get tired of spanking your ass, or tying you up, or making you scream.”
Ranchers don’t talk like that. Mona didn’t even talk like that, and she knew her way around a clit.
“Show me,” I said. He smiled. He used a razor blade to slice the tape. He flipped me over on the bed and told me to keep myself still this time.
“You want proof,” he said. “You want to feel inside of you that I’m giving you something to hold onto. But you have to find that in yourself. That trust.” Then he was pulling his belt out of his jeans, snapping the leather in the air, letting me know what was coming.
Ranchers don’t whip you—not even when you beg them on your knees, tears streaking your cheeks as you explain this is what you need. Mona didn’t even understand, although she tried once with a piece of rope. James punished me fiercely until I cried, and then he fucked me just as hard, his cock thrusting, his hands in my hair.
“Don’t worry, baby. I’ll show every night that I’m not going anywhere. I’ll show you every morning when you wake up at my side.”
The “mechanic wanted” sign came down at the gas station. But before we celebrated, James said he had something to do. He grabbed up the razor blade from the windowsill. “I’ll be right back,” he said. “I just have to change a one to a two.”




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